


bleed but both of our hearts (believe all of these stars)

by eyesonfire



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: LITERALLY, Larriage, Ledding, Like, M/M, Wedding Night, also, are we still calling it smut?, but fluff i guess, dangerous love, disturbing love, im too old to be writing fic, louis is like sick in love with harry idk, so in love it hurts, tiny bit of smut at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-14 23:26:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5763031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyesonfire/pseuds/eyesonfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>he wishes he could breathe harry in, keep him in his lungs and never exhale, wishes he could cut open his palm and sew harry in, attach him physically so he won’t ever let go, wishes he could bleed out the stars so harry could pick them up and hang them from his ceiling, wishes he could throw a line around the moon and pull every muscle in his body wrestling it down, just to hold it in broken arms to give to harry styles. </p><p>or the one in which louis tomlinson and harry styles get married and become the legal two halves of a whole they have been for a while now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bleed but both of our hearts (believe all of these stars)

**Author's Note:**

> this could be read as a little twisted and this is definately not a healthy relationship please i know it seems romantic but loving someone this much is not healthy in fact it's not love it's obsession and it's bad but basically i can't write anything but these boys being so in love with each other it gets twisted into some dark, dangerous monster idk.
> 
> sorry.
> 
> title: ed sheeran, all of the stars

harry’s fizzing, spitting, a fire throwing embers, his cheeks candy apple red and his eyes sparkling like a million suns, his legs longer than the descent into hell itself and his suit jacket sinfully, dangerously tight. he's magnetic, a solar force that draws louis’ eyes to him from anywhere in the room. 

it's gravity. 

orbit.

inescapable. 

 

louis' eyes drag back to harry yet again, and it's like blinking, like it's physically painful for his eyes to not be drinking in this sight of harry tomlinson-styles, tuxedo-clad and boyish energy, a smelting pit melting iron: as if his eyes'd ever really left. harry glows, throwing his head back as he laughs at something anne says, his hand resting on her forearm and his other clutching a sparkling glass of champagne. 

he lights up everything around him, sets fire to the air, forces solar flares into his speech and everyone around him melts, superheated and oxygen deprived. his laugh bubbles across the room to where louis stands watching silent, his heart so big in his chest he feels he might fall with the weight of his love, his chest constricting as his cheeks pull tight to his ears, a smile so wide that he feels he might explode into a million pieces, ripped to shreds by this love and thrown in a trillion directions, scattered to every part of the universe. 

harry looks around, catches his eye, licks his lips, throws a wink, tosses his hair as he flicks his attention back to his mother. careless, perfect, wondrous, happy; mine. and his heart thumps in agreement. 

mine, mine, mine, it repeats, a pounding in louis’s throat that burns as he tries to swallow past it. mine, mine, mine. 

louis watches harry and harry smiles louder. 

louis laughs for no reason at all, but maybe every reason he could ever have, feeling floaty and light and twinkly, and yeah, maybe he’s had a bit of champagne, and yeah, maybe half the reason he’s paused right here against this wall is because he doesn’t really trust his feet right now, but no, most of it is because harry tomlinson-styles is just so pretty he could die with it. 

pushing himself off the wall, moving slow through the sludge of champagne and happiness and warm, sluggish muscles, he waltzes slowly over to where he saw harry last, interrupted by a million well-wishes, a thousand handshakes and as many hugs, kisses on the cheek and offers of more champagne, and it’s lovely, it really is. but it’s not harry and his skin itches with the need to be close to him again. 

the walk takes both no time at all and six long years, and he sneaks up behind harry, skin pimpling and eyes burning. 

“guess who,” he mumbles, slipping his hands over harry’s eyes, tucking his face in between his suit-padded shoulder blades and inhaling deeply, the smell of rainy day forests and freshly mown grass and a little bit of vanilla that is so harry, so bewilderingly earthy for someone so obviously of divine creation, someone who belongs in the clouds, in cloud-floored golden throned rooms, someone who leaves the taste of fireworks and the acrid taste of jupiter in your mouth, someone who leaves ashes on your skin and singes your hair, someone that louis can’t stare at for too long for fear of the brightness burning his eyes and searing stars into his retinas for him to blink past for the rest of his life. as long as the stars look like harry, louis thinks that wouldn’t be a bad thing. 

harry giggles as he pulls louis’s hands off his eyes, louis’ small hands completely encapsulated in harry's giant bear paws, and presses them to his lips. 

“hi, husband,” harry murmurs, turning around to catch louis up in his arms, burying his face into the crook of Louis’ neck, like he always does. and this is, well. louis’s not a poet, but this is why the earth turns. this, holding harry like this, this is why flowers bloom and why the sun bounces off the ocean to fling itself closer to the moon, this is why the stars in the sky sing harrys name and why the sound of his heart beating in his chest right now seems to be harry, harry, harry. 

it fills his veins, pulsing, flowing, the incredible lightness from harry filling him up and making him feel floaty and shiny and perfect. harry shifts his head, captures louis’s lips in his own, and this. well, this is why sonnets have been written and why men have been killed: kissing harry is the reason man wanted to walk on the moon, the reason the sun comes out on a mid-winter day: kissing harry is the reason it snows on christmas and the reason stars explode: the reason black holes destroy everything they touch and the reason aphrodite herself weeps. 

“dance with me,” louis says, and what he means is, ‘don’t leave my arms, never leave my arms, stay with me forever’.

“okay,” says harry, allowing himself to be led to the dance floor, and what he means is ‘okay.’

and they sway, alcohol and music guiding louis’ feet, his arms tight around harry and their chests pressed close. he can feel harry’s breathing, feel his heartbeat, can feel his own replying, a song sung of ‘mine, mine, mine’. it's eternal, their love. it's mythical, age-old, a tale told a million times in a million ages, the song of soldiers and kings and peasants and scholars and scientists and they've done it all, they've been it all, they've fallen in love the same story each time, every lifetime. it's eternity, it's the dance of the moon and the tides and the sun and the planets and his heat beats on and on, mine, mine, mine. it's their dance, and louis has no idea how long they’ve been revolving. but harry’s cheek is pressed to his neck, his lips pressed close to his shoulder, his breath warm on Louis’ shirt, and this is exactly where he is meant to be. 

it’s a miracle, really, out of everything in the universe, how old and magnificent and wondrous and huge everything is, from galaxies and universes and black holes and suns and empires, that he was lucky enough to be alive at the same time as harry tomlinson-styles. to breath the same air as him is a lottery louis’ will never be able to repay; he tries, in vain, every morning to thank whatever deity created harry tomlinson-styles, whatever goddess that breathed his life into this dull world, that created this boy with music in his soul and a boat in his palms and a journey in his heart and somehow, somewhere, in all of that everything-ness inside of harry styles, a love returned for louis tomlinson.

“i love you,” louis says to him, for the thousandth time today, and well, if his toes don’t still tingle when he says it. he’s got oceans inside of him, and all the waves at once crash into his chest, as if they ache, as if they claw to get closer to harry styles. his wonderful moon boy. 

harry's eyes are soft and comfortable and louis wants to sink inside them, to force his way inside harry and cube out a little burrow, to stay there, warm and held and forever, and still, he wouldn’t be close enough. it wouldn’t be enough, it will never be enough. he wishes he could breathe harry in, keep him in his lungs and never exhale, wishes he could cut open his palm and sew harry in, attach him physically so he won’t ever let go, wishes he could bleed out the stars so harry could pick them up and hang them from his ceiling, wishes he could throw a line around the moon and pull every muscle in his body wrestling it down, just to hold it in broken arms to give to harry styles. 

"i love you," says louis, and it doesn’t nearly convey what he wants it to, doesn’t convey the desperate way in which he loves him, the needy way in which his heart cries out for him, the half crazed way his stomach flutters when he's near. it doesn’t convey how louis spent thirteen hours straight until his mother forced him to eat and sleep researching constellations because harry mentioned once he liked the stars, it doesn’t convey how louis burned his hands damned near to the bone on the hot stove and kept right on cooking because harry said he was hungry, doesn’t convey how louis would claw out his own organs to give to harry if he mentioned he might quite like to know what they look like. it doesn’t convey the way he feels sick without him, the way he feels like he’s burning up and might just die when harry leaves the house, doesn’t convey the way he feels filled with the very sun itself when harry is angry at him.

but it’s enough. because when harry lifts his head and looks him in the eyes and says 'i love you more,’ louis almost believes it. because it’s dangerous, this love they have. its consuming and terrifying and everything. it’s complete and it’s burning hot and the very universe itself is scared of the heat of them together. it’s almost a disease, it ruins everything in its path and leaves nothing but a scorched mess and Louis’s organs are nothing but dust now, cremated by the force of this love, burnt away to make sure there is nothing in his body but room for harry to fill.

and they dance, they twirl and they laugh and they fly, with wings on their ankles and screws on their feet, they leave stardust in their wake and they’re creating constellations. louis dances with anne and harry dances with jay and they fall back to each other, positive and negative, magnetic charge, halves of a whole, the tides and the moon. 

harry has infected every single cell of his body, the most potent virus he never wants to fight. he loves him so much he sometimes throws up with the force of it. but he’s never been very good with his feelings. 

his ribs are tight when he smiles, because he thinks he might be passed the limit of how much happiness a human being can feel in one day. and then everyone is leaving and its final goodbyes and thank you very much's and we’ll see you tomorrows and harry's hand is a hot weight in louis', burning a brand into his palm that spells ‘mine, yours, mine.’

and then its them, it’s just the two of them, blessedly, perfectly, and louis gulps harry in like a man breathing air after drowning. they stand, still, for a second, breathing each other in and clutching each other tight. 

and then they’re upstairs, burning flesh and searing eyes as harry tomlinson-styles undresses his husband for the first time ever and this is so much more than it ever was before because mine, mine, mine. there are goosebumps on louis’s skin that feel like razorblades to harry’s fingertips, or maybe it’s harry’s fingers that are the razors and louis doesn’t know anymore, lost in a haze of yes and more and touch me, please harry.

and harry is lost too, eyes dark and far away and hair twisted in louis’ fist and is that a bruise or a kiss and is this pain or is it love and is this body mine or is it harry’s and then they’re so close neither knows where they end and the other begins and its brutal, intense, raw love and louis bends over the arched back of harry beneath him to place a butterfly kiss on the knobbles of harrys sweaty spine that maps the beginning and the end of time itself as he thrusts, panting over and over the missive that his heart has forgotten how to stop saying mine, mine, mine and then its white hot and its supernova and a black hole and a star dying and a sun exploding and it’s an ethereal, silent moment.

“i love you,” says louis, after, in the dark and the quiet as his eyes blink away the scars of too much light. 

“i love you more,”, replies harry, voice quiet in the empty room, panting breath and heaving chests, claw marks and bite marks and love marks and sweaty sheets. 

and louis would almost believe him if he didn’t know better. 

“husband,” he says instead of fighting the same old fight they’ve had a million times, rehashed as many times as the universe, unresolved as the day they met. 

harry squirms impossibly closer into louis’s side, his mouth a gentle curve of a smile against louis’s ribs. 

“husband,” he agrees.


End file.
